


primum non nocere A.K.A. Five Reports Leonard McCoy Doctored (& one he didn't need to)

by kangeiko



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, Star Trek: The Original Series, Star Trek: The Original Series (Movies)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Community: help_japan, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-03
Updated: 2012-08-03
Packaged: 2017-11-11 07:44:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/476212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kangeiko/pseuds/kangeiko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>5 reports Leonard McCoy doctored (& one he didn't need to).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Miri

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Amatara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amatara/gifts).



> Many thanks to selenak for betaing duties! Any remainging snaphus are entirely my own fault. This fic is for the incredibly patient amatara, who waited for a Very Long Time (tm) indeed. I hope you enjoy it, my dear.

 

He does not even consider submitting a full report on this. There is absolutely no way in hell.

 

“Bones.”

 

None.

 

“Bones.”

 

“I’m not doing it, so please don’t ask.”

 

Jim leaned back against the wall and glanced up. “Computer, lock doors.” The computer chirped acquiescence and Jim sighed. “I figured you’d say that.”

 

“Then why ask,” and, really, he had to order more ciprofloxacin, this was ridiculous, the crew were going through his supply like it was vitamin supplements. Every time they were exposed to any bacterium the whole lot had to be dosed, and he lived in dread of the time he’d dose them all and watch it have absolutely no effect. Resistant bacteria, his space-faring ass.

 

He looked up to see Jim studying the floor. Well, shit. This didn’t bode well. “Jim –“

 

“Just because,” Jim said slowly, “ _you_ won’t use the virus for bio-weaponry, that doesn’t mean others won’t.  The universe doesn’t work that way.”

 

“There’s no guarantee that anyone will stumble on it,” McCoy said after a pause. “There’s not even a high likelihood; if we stick a plague warning on the planet, no-one is gonna _want_ to investigate.”

 

“No-one rational,” Jim pointed out. “I hate to break it to you, Bones, but not all our enemies have turned out to be the rational type. And what then? Sure, you don’t want anything to do with this, but what if someone else does? Doesn’t even have to be malicious intentions. One rumour, and an ambitious scientist thinks they can fix the virus so it’s not lethal. It’s possible, right?” His hand crept to the half-visible lesion on his forearm, skirting the edges as he scratched. The lesions had shrunk dramatically once McCoy had administered the serum, and the other symptoms had abated, but the entire landing party still had a shred or two of blue about them, and would do for a few days yet.

 

“It’s possible,” McCoy admitted. “ _Maybe_. It’s far more _likely_ , however, that some self-important paper-pusher back at Starfleet HQ thinks he knows better, and decides that this would make a prime research opportunity. It’s far more _likely_ that it’s our own people that manage to set loose a mutated version of this thing and, sure, we’ll be able to stop it-“ he threw up his hands, “in a few months, maybe; a few weeks if we’re lucky. A few _weeks_ , and meanwhile it’s wiped out a planet or two. Maybe we catch a break and it’s somewhere out of the way, or maybe we _don’t_ , and it’s Rigel or Antares, and the damn thing is in the shipping routes and wiping out half the sector and then it doesn’t _matter_ if we have the antidote, because we won’t be able to manufacture enough to make a blind bit of difference!” He glared at Jim for a moment, defiant, then turned back to his paperwork.

 

Ciproflaxin, right. Did the blood bank need topping up? Spock was overdue to give blood; he’d have Chapel schedule it. Worst possible time to find they’re running low would be when Spock was bleeding out on his table.

 

He could feel Jim staring at him for a while. It felt like a while, anyway, because he was most definitely _not_ looking up, and this wasn’t even a discussion.

 

Jim sighed. “All right. I see your point.” He looked around. “I think I need something medicinal.”

 

McCoy looked up at that and managed what was almost a smile at Jim’s rueful expression. No love lost for paper-pushers in _that_ corner, although he could appreciate the difficulty Jim was in, trying to decide what would be the greatest risk. “Now _that_ I can get behind.” He still had a little bit of that Saurian brandy left and, really there was no better time. He fetched it and a couple of tumblers, pouring generously for them both.

 

Jim squinted at his drink. “I’ll need to speak to Spock, you know.”

 

McCoy leaned back in his chair and sipped from his glass. “No,” he said. “You won’t.”

 

Spock had already beaten him to it, presenting his carefully-doctored report for McCoy’s approval. It was probably already in Jim’s inbox by now, telling the tragic tale of Miri’s world and the plague that killed all post-adolescents. Spock had clearly hedged his bets, limiting his report to the activities of the landing party and the status of the stricken world. With respect to the medical aspects of the contagion, he had deferred to McCoy’s report on the matter.

 

And McCoy… well. He had told the truth, after a fashion. His report had not lied about the nature of the virus, nor its side-effects. However,there had been no need, in his opinion, to mention the age of any of the afflicted. They looked like children and, medically, there was nothing about them that screamed _immortals_. With his serum, they would age normally from this point on.

 

(He has already destroyed all his notes on the virus.)

 

Jim didn’t look terribly surprised.

 

_Immortality,_ for goodness’s sake. Whose idiotic idea had _that_ been.

 

It is a young man’s game, his father had once told him, and McCoy had never forgot it. Surely it would be the other way around? With young men laughing at mortality, and old men grasping life too tightly for breath...

 

It wasn't anything like that. Not even a little bit.

 

_Immortality is a young man’s game, and old men have no business reaching for it. Leonard, Leonard, listen to me. I don’t want to live like this. Leonard, please –_

 

McCoy reached for the bottle.

 

*

 


	2. City on the Edge of Forever

 

There are no individual reports filed on the Guardian. Jim wrote the only report, after extensive interviews with him and Spock. It was hand-written, sealed, and sent with an official courier in a tamper-proof container designed to destroy itself if opened incorrectly. McCoy pressed his thumbprint to the bottom of the report and watched Jim place it in the container, then put it out of his mind. He had plenty to occupy him, and state secrets were nowhere near his limited purview.

 

Two months after dispatch, Jim held a confidential meeting where he informed him and Spock that the courier had arrived safely in San Francisco and delivered his message to Admiralty.

 

“Two months! Jim, that’s ridiculous. What’s he been doing for all this time?”

 

And that was how McCoy learned about the “no tech” clause for the highest security protocol. No recordings. No transporters. No scans. Commercial transports only; nothing to draw attention to the courier at all.

 

Other than the three people in the room (and the landing party, McCoy thought, but did not mention), only Admiralty would know about the Guardian.

 

“So we only have to worry about leaks on their side,” McCoy said, and rolled his eyes.

 

Jim sighed. “There’s not a great deal I can do about that, Bones. I’ve locked things down from here; I have to trust that Admiralty will do the same from their end. Security is paramount on this; I don’t think that anyone is making the mistake of taking it lightly.”

 

“There is no reason for concern,” Spock said. Paused. Then, “other than the obvious, of course.”

 

Of course.

 

Jim let him and Spock read the report before he sealed it. It included no mention of how easily the Guardian had woken, or how accessible the timeline was. Easier than accessing a film, really.

 

(So easy, in fact, that it begged the question of whether anyone had accomplished it before. Maybe they were just closing the barn door after the horses had already bolted.

 

After all, how would any of them know?)

 

This did not make McCoy feel any better.

 

 

*

 


	3. Amok Time

 

Doctor-patient confidentiality binds him.

 

Any doctor could say this, and any non-doctor would say that they understood but they don’t. Which would cause the greatest harm: breaking his oath to preserve patient privacy, or leaving his patient at risk in the future? What if there are other Vulcans in the fleet later on, ones without a nosy doctor to prod them until they give in? But Vulcans keep quiet about this for a reason, and he will not be responsible for making that decision on another’s behalf.

 

Spock did not ask him to destroy his notes, but he considered doing it anyway. In the end, torn by indecision, he outsourced the choice to the _Intrepid_ ’s Dr Sarin, who understood his oblique question all too well and informed him in no uncertain terms that this was being discussed at the highest levels of Vulcan medical authorities, and that they would appreciate a pause while in deliberation.

 

In other words: keep your nose out, it’s not your business.

 

It isn’t the right decision in the long run; but, then, it is easy for him to say. It’s not the right decision because his approach to everything has always been to fling it out into the open where everyone can see. No secrets for him, no sir.

 

(Except… except the ones he had to keep, obviously. Except those that line the inside of him, jostling for space, forced down his gullet by his oath and his conscience; yes, those he kept, trapped somewhere between diaphragm and oesophagus.)

 

His patient did not give him leave to talk. Fleet did not know what questions to ask to get him to break one oath for the other.

 

(The words stick in his throat.)

 

He kept quiet.

 

 

*


	4. The Trouble with Tribbles (AKA Trials & Tribble-ations)

 

When he met the (gorgeous, athletic, _glorious_ ) new judge, Emony Dax, she already had five Olympic medals under her belt: two bronze, two silver, and one gold (uneven bars, Lagos Olympics), with the possibility of more on the horizon. A human would be nearing the end of her career, but the Trill had a longer life-span than humans; well, longer at peak-capacity, anyway. So Dax could afford to take a break from her punishing schedule to ‘view’, as she called it.

 

Really, it was too charming, this turn of phrase. “I’m here to view the beauties,” she had told him in halting English, and for one brief, insane moment McCoy thought that she was there to look at the girls. As it turned out, _yes_ , she was, but only insofar as they related to the ‘beauties’: the perfect dismounts boasted by the University of Mississippi gymnastics team. Beauties the team may have been – in McCoy’s opinion, anyway – but their dismounts were apparently neat enough to convince an Olympic athlete to volunteer her scant free time to judge the entire competition.

 

(The rest of the competition was a lot less neat than the dismounts.)

 

“Which of the parts is your favourite?” Emony asked, tracing circles on his arm.

 

At nineteen, McCoy was too old to be drawn into such an obvious trap. “The pole vault,” he said. He pressed a kiss to the nape of her neck. “I thought they were very, uh, _vigorous_.”

 

“Yes,” Emony said, laughing, “those are my thoughts as well.” She shifted a little on the bed and McCoy reached behind her, fluffing her pillow and settling her back down.

 

“You doing ok?”

 

She rolled her eyes a little at him. “I am well, thanks in no small part to you. You do not need to nurse me.”

 

“Well. I’m not. I was mostly thinking of handing over the nursing parts to actual nurses. I’ll just be here to help you convalesce.”

 

“Oh, _convalesce,_ ” she said, laughing and wincing at the same time, her hand at her side. “Is _that_ what they call it on Earth.”

 

(Two weeks ago, she wouldn’t have joked with him, too afraid to get it wrong.)

 

“Ma’am, I think you’ll find that’s what they call it everywhere,” he said, grinning.

 

*

 

Three weeks later, once Emony was well enough to get the transport back to Trill, McCoy received a visitor in his dorm room. It was a semi-expected visit, given the circumstances of Dax's departure. Still, 'not unexpected' was definitely not the same thing as 'welcome'.

 

“I, uh. I didn’t realise you kept such a close eye on visitors.”

 

His visitor – a neatly-pressed officer fairly close to his own age – smiled slightly. “Only the ones that we nearly misplace.”

 

Misplace. Huh. So it turned out that McCoy hadn’t really cornered the market on euphemisms, after all.

 

The requests were fairly straight-forward, anyway. Starfleet Medical, he was happy to oblige, no problem. Emony damn well near died on him, bleeding out on the gym floor while the doctor couldn’t get to her through the crush of screaming, panicked crowds. He’d only been close enough to help because he’d wanted to look at the girls in their skimpy gym clothes, and instead he had his hands in some strange woman’s (alien's?) abdomen, pressing down on the wound to staunch the bleeding and – and –

 

And.

 

His knowledge of anatomy was scant, but he knew enough that this was definitely a difference that needed documenting.

 

No, he had no problems talking to Starfleet Medical and helping out some doctor who might need to know this stuff. Poor bastards needed all the help they could get.

 

The Diplomatic Corps, though? Those idiots who gave the would-be assassin clearance to attend as a cultural attaché?

 

(They could go hang for all that he’d say to _them_.)

 

His interactions with Emony Dax, he told the neatly-pressed officer, had been limited to her first aid and convalescence.  He had nothing to report.

 

 

 

_*_


	5. The Voyage Home

_tap tap tap_

_tap tap tap_

“Doctor McCoy.”

 

_tap tap tap_

 

“Doctor McCoy.”

 

_tap tap tap_

_tap tap tap_

 

_tap tap tap_

_tap tap –_

“Leonard.”

_tap_

 

He looked down at the stylus he had in his hands. He hadn’t even realised. “Sorry.”

 

All this waiting around for the inevitable was going to send him crazy. McCoy was pretty certain that being cashiered wouldn’t be the worst thing that had ever happened to him, but he really _wasn’t_ looking forward to trying to cope with what that would do to Jim, and - _God damn it_.

 

Spock – disconcertingly back in uniform – looked at him for a long moment. “That is not why I raised your attention, doctor.  Although your discomfort is obvious, even to me.”

 

He wanted to shrug it off, because there was no way in hell he was having this conversation, not here, with the ruins of Starfleet HQ still smouldering around him. “I’m fine.”

 

“Ah.” Spock put his stylus down and leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “I had not realised that ‘fine’ was such on a human. Fascinating. And the drinking, is that also part of being ‘fine’?”

 

It was like listening to a recording from years ago: a pitch-perfect imitation of the ‘real’ Spock. “Like you’d know,” he said, exhausted and irritable and not thinking straight, and could have bitten his tongue off.

 

The ‘real’ Spock would have been offended by that. This Spock – for all his earlier cavorting in the waters of the Bay – said nothing, his face inscrutable. Even his eyebrows didn’t move, which McCoy would previously have bet was an impossibility. (No matter how much Spock tries to hide it, that’s where his emotion lies: eyes and eyebrows. You can keep your smiles; McCoy can read this Vulcan by the tightness of the skin around his eyes. Except now, of course.)

 

Spock gazed back at him with perfect composure; a Spock mask worn by an impostor with nothing behind his eyes.

 

Here is the thing. Here is the – and he needed another drink, goddamn it, he needed another drink, because, because, _Christ_ – thing, the _crux_ , if you will. The thing that means he can’t sleep, and can’t eat. The thing he can’t say to Jim, because he knows that he won’t be able to stand the look in his eyes, and he certainly can’t say it to _Spock_ , and that leaves him plumb-out of people to speak to, and. And.

 

So here’s the thing. Because sometimes, he can still feel an _itch_ in the back of his mind, an understanding he should not have. Some things he takes on faith, except no, not anymore. Some things now make sense to him in a way they never would have before.

 

This isn’t anything like the Other Spock, the Spock from his nightmares. Not the shape of his mind, not the feeling of him inside. It was nothing like it, though he struggled just as much (after, always after), and screamed and screamed and still nothing came out. It was nothing like it, because this wasn’t done to hurt, and he doesn’t begrudge Spock this, not _this_.

 

But.

 

There is a little bit of him (a large bit of him, a fucking enormous bit of him) that still stops every time he sees Spock try to be Spock.

 

_Give me a child until he is seven, and he shall be mine forever_.

 

There was a Spock there, sure enough, staring back with Spock’s eyes. And that was Spock’s mouth, and his hair, and his thrice-blessed pointy ears, and his wit, sometimes peeking through – half-remembered, half-understood humour – yes, there was certainly a Spock there. But give me a boy until he is seven, and the healers had him – and McCoy – for far longer than that, rebuilding him from the ground up. Memories with no context.

 

_Restraints on a med-table in a universe a mirror away, and empty cages of screaming things where everything was twisted inside out_.

 

There was a Spock. There was an Other Spock (maybe there still was; McCoy hoped that bastard survived, somehow). And this – this was just another iteration. Spock version three. Other _Other_ Spock, the one where he got to be all Vulcan.

 

(And it wasn’t so bad, was it? A Vulcan Spock that could curse, and joke, and make a guess; but not like he’d been before; no, not at all. It was Emony all over again, Emony and her halting grasp of English, like how shehad joked those first few nights, so _hesitant_ , fitting words together to try them out, a foreign taste on the tongue –)

 

They wouldn’t destroy the human parts, he’s not stupid. There are ethics there, too, and some respect for what is unknown. But T’Lar is Vulcan, and he couldn’t bring himself to ask, he just _couldn’t_ , and what if they just didn’t know what to look for?

 

_What if they didn’t get all of it out?_

 

There is a not-inconsiderable part of him that wonders if they took the right parts out of him, or if there are shades of Leonard H. McCoy that were given away, and lost to him now.

 

Spock looked back at him with serene, uncomprehending eyes, and McCoy was suddenly horribly certain that he was going to be sick.

 

“Doctor McCoy –“ Spock said, but McCoy was already on his way out, spine rigid.

 

This was not how he thought things would turn out.

 

*

 

He’s a doctor, not a quantum theorist. Some things he takes on trust.

 

Spock’s report was already in his inbox when he reached his temporary quarters.  There was a note appended.

 

_Leonard,_

_I realise that I did not thank you. Gratitude is not in my custom, but it is yours, and I honour this. I regret causing you pain; such was not my intention._  

 

It was signed, simply, _Spock_.

 

He stared at it for a long while before opening up the report. There, carefully detailed – belying Spock’s refusal on the _Bounty_ – was an unredacted summary of the katra ritual, marked _Eyes Only_.

 

He read the whole document carefully, trying to understand. He’s a doctor, not a theologian.

 

“We have no common frame of reference,” Spock said from behind him, and McCoy realised that he hadn’t even heard him come in.

 

“So you said,” McCoy said, staring down at the report. He looked up to see Spock’s throat work, the dry swallow plain. Nervousness, McCoy would have said, in a human or in Spock. His Spock, at least; this Other is an unknown quantity.

 

The Other Spock met his eyes. “However. Our individual experiences are…”

 

“Unique? Weird?” He raised an eyebrow. “Beyond the pale?”

 

“Concomitant.” Spock cleared his throat. “To the _fal-tor-pan_.”

 

McCoy crossed his arms. “Concomitant, huh. I thought that my part was a glorified extra. Cold storage for the main attraction.”

 

Spock did not pretend to misunderstand him. “I came here to say that I will speak with you.”

 

He wants the same semi-humour he saw on the _Bounty_ , the same almost-understanding that ebbed and flowed that entire time aboard. He wants _his_ Spock back, and this is the closest he’s going to get. “You are the one supposed to be speaking, aren’t you? Life after death and all that. Any number of journalists and doctors and theologians would love to get their hands on you.” It comes out bitter.

 

“No.” Spock reached out and touched the computer terminal, where his report was still displayed. “I will speak with _you_.” He looked back up at McCoy then, and met his eyes.

 

McCoy’s mouth was dry, his heart hammering in his ribs. This close, he could feel the too-high heat radiating from Spock, the paradox of him familiar in body and mind. Slowly, he nodded.

 

*

 

Later. He felt tired enough to sleep standing up, his spine locked rigidly from a few scant minutes of standing at attention while the whole world watched. _Stage-fright_.

 

His own report had yet to be filed, and he was a little astonished that he hadn’t been cashiered. At least, then, he could refuse to file, and be done with it all.

 

Instead, it was 03:08 and the overdue icon was blinking at him. He needed to finish this and file it before 06:00, because that would be when Jim would be required to march into Sickbay and yell at him, and really, neither one of them wants that.

 

He thought about making something up. There must be a chemical imbalance that can be easily explained away. A virus, maybe. Something suitably exotic. _The charges have been dropped; what difference does it make?_

 

Maybe he should just tell the truth. Vulcans, and souls, and things we are not meant to know. Leave it all to his trust in the fundamental goodness and ingenuity of life in its many forms.

 

(Still. There is _fundamental goodness_ , and there is _a med-table with restraints,_ and the two are not mutually exclusive.)

 

He has a duty as a doctor and as a soldier, and he does not understand those who find them in conflict. His duty is clear in whatever clothes he wears, whether a Starfleet uniform or a surgeon’s scrubs.

 

He’s a doctor (soldier), not a theologian.

 

Still.

_05:36_

 

Spock had offered to mind-meld with him, near the end of their ‘talk’. So that he could understand, Spock had said, and McCoy – who was allergic, who would sooner have accepted a disruptor to the face before acquiescing – had been inches away from agreeing because _of course, of course, you do not say 'no' to_ this, when he’d looked into Spock’s eyes, and –

 

Stopped.

 

That was _Spock_ , he’d thought, astonished. And, _he doesn’t want to do this. _And he was doing it anyway. Despite his own reluctance; despite McCoy's. Ridiculously painful and illogical offer up this thing that neither of them want, and that pig-headed idiocy had been so familiar that it had stolen McCoy's breath clean away._ Spock _, he'd thought, astonished._ Spock _._  
_

 

_05:48_

 

His carefully fabricated report blinked back up at him.

 

_Recording paused. Do you wish to authenticate and submit mission report?_

 

(In his mind’s eye, he can see the gleam of the restraints on the examination table.)

 

It is a two-fold imperative, doctor and soldier both, and he does not hesitate.

 

*

 

 


	6. (& one he didn't need to)

 

He aches all over, like someone beat the crap out of him. Oh, hey. Yes, that happened.

 

He poured himself a stiff drink, locked the door and sat at his station. _Might as well get it over with._ “Computer. Begin recording.”

 

He doesn’t hold back in this report, not a single damn thing. Everything he saw, everything he witnessed, everything his alternate thought was _acceptable_ or _interesting_. You think you know yourself and what you’re capable of, and then. _Then_.

 

There is no justice in the world, to have such things exist. To be the cause of them.

 

The ethics class is a requirement for all medical students, of course. It’s a requirement of command cadets. It’s a requirement of research doctorates. It’s a requirement of being a doctor, a researcher, a soldier, a _person_. McCoy had done the work, of course, because you either passed or you didn’t, and if you didn’t you could say good-bye to your career. But he’d never thought, not _once_ , that he wouldn’t know an ethical dilemma on sight. These things don’t happen by themselves. They don’t happen in a vacuum. And DNR-but-what-about-mind-control, or futility-treatment-but-what-about-the-rapid-rate-of-advancement, or _God. Damned. Miri’s. World_. Those were moral dilemmas and he knew his answer to each of them, he _knew_ in which direction his heart would jump, which answer felt right. He didn’t need an ethics class to teach him that.

 

Except.

 

Somewhere out there – some part of him that may have been, given other circumstances – lived a McCoy who’d make Mengele turn pale.

 

Sulu had taken to calling them their Evil Doppelgangers; McCoy wishes that were true. But - the feel of the Other Spock in his mind hadn’t been evil, not really. Painful, yes. Wrong, yes. But he hadn’t been evil. None of them were, not really.

 

It’s a comfort, he tells himself, a little too often to be true. _It's a comfort._ It means that universe can change. Something went very wrong – any fool can see that – and maybe the wrong mix happened in the brain chemistry of a few key individuals, and society followed, helpless. Maybe it’s the broken windows theory, and the Other Spock will be able to change it after all. It’s a _comfort_ that they are just people, only people after all.

 

(In his mind, he can still feel the searing pain of having that Other Spock inside him, every nerve ending on fire, his mind splayed open as he screamed and screamed and no sound came out.)

 

He sealed the report and sent it to Jim & Spock to review, and poured himself another drink.

 

 

*

 

 

 

fin


End file.
